


Hopeless and taken

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [36]
Category: Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Depression, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Sickfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27281596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “Tell me if you feel really bad,” Steve tells Bucky as he tucks him into bed around noon on Sunday.  “I mean... you know.  If your mind feels worse.  Than you just want to be up here by yourself.  I’ll take you out to the farm.  I’ll take you to the hospital.”  Steve gives him a pleading look.Bucky reluctantly nods.  He lies back against the pillows and pulls the quilt up to his chin.  “I just want to go to sleep,” he whispers.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [36]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/760377
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Hopeless and taken

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @builder051

“Tell me if you feel really bad,” Steve tells Bucky as he tucks him into bed around noon on Sunday. “I mean... you know. If your mind feels worse. Than you just want to be up here by yourself. I’ll take you out to the farm. I’ll take you to the hospital.” Steve gives him a pleading look.

Bucky reluctantly nods. He lies back against the pillows and pulls the quilt up to his chin. “I just want to go to sleep,” he whispers. 

Steve nods. “Ok. I can stay if you want. Until you drift off.”

Bucky snakes his arm out reaches for the bottle of quick-acting melatonin on the bedside table. “I’ll be ok.” He pops the easy open lid, shakes out two, and tosses them back. They taste terrible, but he resists making a face. He deserves disgusting pink tablets. He deserves the throbbing headache. He deserves the repetitive thoughts that tell him he’d be better off dead.

“You sure?” Steve asks.

Bucky sets the bottle back down and murmurs, “Yeah.”

“Ok.” Steve gives him a wan smile. “I’ll be downstairs. Yell if you need anything. Or text.” He nudges Bucky’s phone closer to the bed. “Or call. Whatever you want.”

“Sure...” Bucky closes his eyes, if only to get Steve to stop talking.

“Come check on you in an hour or two?”

“Fine.” Bucky hopes he’ll be asleep.

“Alright.” Steve begins to retreat toward the door. “It’ll be ok, Buck. This’ll pass. I promise.”

“Hm.” Bucky turns slightly so his ear is buried in the pillow. He knows he ought to believe Steve. But he also knows that today isn’t the day for his words to be true.

Bucky drops off quickly, though for how long he has no idea. He wakes feeling warm and groggy, a thin layer of sweat beading up on the back of his neck and his unshaven upper lip. Light still streams in around the curtained window, so not too much time seems to have passed, but whether he’s been under for twenty minutes or two hours, it seems to have been enough time for him to spike a fever.

Bucky rolls over onto his stomach, pressing his forehead into a cool spot on the pillow and attempting to breathe in deeply through the barrier of the memory foam swaddled in organic cotton. He smells a hint of laundry soap, though it’s almost completely overtaken by the scent of his own musk. He’s spent far too much time in bed lately without letting things air out. 

Bucky’s hit with a wave of disgust that quickly turns to self-hatred. What is he doing with his life? He quit his job months ago; he’s bringing no income into the house. Steve can easily keep them afloat, but when he’s constantly using up sick days and vacation to take care of Bucky, his employment is in danger as well. And that’s Bucky’s fault.

Steve would be better off without him. Bucky’s had the thought before, and now it returns with a vengeance. Steve deserves the opportunity to live without the dead weight of Bucky tied to his side. 

But Bucky can’t live without Steve. He can’t care for himself; he can’t open his pill bottles with just one hand to work with. He’d miss his appointments because he either wouldn’t remember or wouldn’t care. Bucky knows Clint and Laura will always be there and willing to help him out, but Steve’s something else entirely. Steve is his. But at the same time, he can’t claim ownership of Steve at all.

Bucky looks around for something to use. Something to take. But his heavy-duty meds are all locked up downstairs, and their aren’t any razors or scissors or sharp objects of any kind in the bedroom. If he goes into the bathroom to look for something, Steve will certainly hear him moving around and come to see what’s going on. 

Bucky’s eyes sweep the room and come to rest on the bottle of melatonin on the bedside table. It won’t kill him, he knows, but it’s worth a shot. Maybe he can choke himself on disgusting pink spit, 

Bucky pops the lid and pours the tablets directly into his mouth. He swallows at them, forcing them whole into his throat where they burn and poke as the muscles squeeze and simultaneously attempt to accept and reject the foreign objects. He coughs, and several pop back up into his mouth with a splash of mucousy spit. Bucky grimaces and swallows it all down again.

Suddenly there’s a soft knock on the door, and the knob begins to turn. Bucky still has the melatonin bottle pressed against his lips as he struggles to down what’s in his mouth and stuck in his throat. His eyes go wide with panic, and he freezes, unable to force his body to change positions.

“Buck?” Steve says softly, opening the door a crack. He peers inside, then pauses a moment as if he isn’t sure what he’s taking in. Then, “What the hell...?”

Bucky tries to swallow again. Most of the tablets have disintegrated by now, and they run down his throat in a gritty mush that turns his stomach with its medicinal sweetness. “Um...” he starts, his voice quiet and watery.

“What’re you...? How many of those did you take?” Steve rushes forward and pries the bottle out of Bucky’s hand. He peers inside and gives it a little shake. 

Bucky’s heart pounds, for it’s clear that the thing is mostly empty. He hadn’t factored in the possibility of getting caught. It’s not that Steve looks angry; in fact, he just looks concerned; but Bucky’s never felt a stronger urge to stop living and disappear from the face of the earth.

“You took a lot, huh?” Steve looks at him with wide, worried eyes. “You don’t... You’re not feeling good, are you?”

Bucky stares at him a second, then slowly shakes his head. He realizes his hand is trembling, and he balls it into a fist in his lap. Bucky’s breaths come in shaky, and tears threaten to spill from the corners of his eyes.

“We need to go,” Steve says softly. “Ok?” He sets the melatonin bottle down and reaches for Bucky’s hand. “It’s not really an attempt, but, like...”

“No,” Bucky whispers. His stomach turns, and he gulps.

“I don’t know if I can keep you safe. And you’re...” Steve uses his other hand to gently cup Bucky’s cheek. “You’re not feeling so good, are you?”

Bucky slowly shakes his head. 

“I mean... We can call it poison control. Say you mixed your meds up. Whatever you want. I just don’t think you should be at home right now.”

Bucky just stares blankly at him. “’M not getting dressed,” he mumbles. His head hurts, and his body feels heavy and uncooperative. Nausea plays around his jawline and the top of his throat, threatening to connect with his stomach and turn things even nastier than they already are.

“You don’t have to,” Steve assures him. “Come on. Let’s go.” He sweeps back the covers and offers Bucky his arm. “Just shoes, that’s all you need.”

Bucky shoves his feet into a pair of Birkenstocks and shuffles downstairs, then follows Steve into the garage. He lets Steve buckle him into the passenger seat like a child, then tips his head back against the headrest. He catches sight of himself in the rear view mirror, taking in his pallid countenance and dark, nearly bruised-looking eyes. His lips look red and wet, and the lightest of pink spots bloom above the stubble on his cheeks. He looks ill, which Bucky supposes works in his favor.

“Ok, here we go.” Steve starts the car and backs out of the driveway. “Short drive.”

It’s only about fifteen minutes to the hospital, but for Bucky it feels like an eternity. His stomach jumps into his throat at every stoplight, and the vibrating motion of the car increases the ache between his eyes. 

“You ok?” Steve asks around the ten minute mark.

“Hm,” Bucky replies, unable to move his head to nod. It would be a lie anyway, so perhaps it’s better for him to keep his response neutral.

“You’re going grey.”

“Oh.”

“I’m gonna pull over--” Steve starts. Then, “Fuck.” Steve signals to change lanes, but a red sports car immediately swerves in front of them from the other direction. Steve slams on the brakes, and Bucky’s seatbelt clamps down tightly across his stomach and chest.

Without warning, warm and overly sweet fluid begins to pour upward from Bucky’s throat, and before he knows it, his lap is drenched in foamy pink. Momentarily unsure of what’s happened, Bucky inhales and is left choking and sputtering.

“Hang on a sec.” Steve brakes again and manages to make it to the shoulder. He stops the car in a stretch of gravel and immediately throws open his door to sprint around to Bucky’s side.

“Here.” He helps Bucky lean over as his stomach continues to empty itself. 

When he’s finished, Bucky flops back into his seat, eyes closed and mouth open, panting.

“I wish I had water or something,” Steve says apologetically. “They’ll have something for you in the ER.”

“Hm.” Bucky gives a tiny nod. He keeps breathing deeply as Steve roots around in the glove box for a handful of napkins. 

Once he’s satisfactorily cleaned up, they continue on their way. “I’m so sorry that happened, Buck,” Steve says. “I’m sure there’ll be some Zofran. Some kind of anti-emetic.”

“Do I have to tell them what happened?” Bucky asks in a hoarse whisper.

“You mean the puke? I’m pretty sure that’s self-explanatory.” Steve nods to the damp bile-smelling patches on Bucky’s pants.

“Everything else?” Bucky squeezes his eyes shut again as Steve turns to park the car in the hospital lot.

“That’s up to you,” Steve sighs. “I don’t want you to lie, but I also don’t want you to have to do anything you don’t want to do. It’s your choice. Not mine.”

“Mm.” Bucky taps his teeth together. He’s exhausted, perhaps from the melatonin, or perhaps from the events of the day. “Can I... go to sleep? Just escape for a while?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says honestly. “You can tell them you’re tired and want to rest. I think you’re pretty sick.” He brushes away stray hairs that Bucky hasn’t even realized are stuck to his clammy forehead. 

“And you’ll, uh, be there?” Bucky asks, a wave of anxiety suddenly washing over him. “When I wake up?”

“Sure will,” Steve replies. “I always will, you know.”

“I, uh...” Bucky stutters. He swallows hard, unsure if he’s pushing down vomit or emotion. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Steve says reaching to take his hand. “Of course.”


End file.
